Hey, Ashen, thanks for reading. The manuscript, the paper, that was in the box in the basement, here dramatized or surrealized a bit, since what really happened is the haunting thing was tossed out in the recycling bin in the normal way. But then there was this fragmented dream of the ocean. And the two began to mix. But figuratively, once it’s tossed into the trash and picked up and gone, where does it really go, but back to the ocean where it came from. So there’s a box of manuscript papers molding in the basement. Better to get rid of it. At least I thought so at the time. Anyway, the paper molts, molding from humidity. Not to get all Edgar Allen Poe-ish about it, but something seems to be going on like some sort of subterranean midnight blues. Maybe the ocean should flood the basement, maybe that’s what happens, reclaiming its images, and it leaves a note: “If you want to surf, surf, but forget about putting it into words.” I don’t know. Will wait and see what the next tide washes up.